


Lovell

by caldefrance



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Aristocracy, Bridgerton Fusion, Class Differences, Courtship, Duelling, F/F, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fencing, Georgian Period, Historical, Horseback Riding, M/M, Marriage, Novel, Romance, Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-22
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-12 15:22:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29636667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caldefrance/pseuds/caldefrance
Summary: The unexpected death of Robert Lovell, fifth Viscount Lovell, upends the lives of his siblings Andrea, Nicolas, and Nile.None of the Lovell siblings had married, each for their own reasons, but it seemed that they wouldn’t have a choice now. As the sixth Viscount Lovell, Nicolas was duty-bound to father an heir. His sisters, Andrea and Nile, needed husbands to provide for them in the event of his untimely death, and so he felt it would also be his responsibility to see his sisters wed—and sooner rather than later.
Relationships: Andy | Andromache of Scythia/Celeste, Booker | Sebastien le Livre/Nile Freeman, Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 12
Kudos: 28





	1. Cover & Front Matter

**Author's Note:**

> A fusion of Julia Quinn’s Bridgerton novels and The Old Guard (2020), _Lovell_ is a story of unconventional relationships in eighteenth-century England.

{image description: a coloured image of an eighteenth-century engraving depicting a female beauty dressed in a green dress and ermine-lined cloak, with her long brown hair covered by a turban, and holding a mask aloft in her hand, overlaid by the work's title (Lovell: A Novel) and author (by caldefrance, author of Masquerade and Duello) in capital letters and the work's tagline (They'd vowed never to marry, but now they must wed.).}

* * *

> **ARCHIVE OF OUR OWN**
> 
> ## LOVELL
> 
> [CALDEFRANCE](https://archiveofourown.org/users/caldefrance/profile) is the author of several stories set in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, influenced by the style of writers she discovered while working on her dissertation on eighteenth-century literature.

* * *

> #### Also by CALDEFRANCE
> 
> [ _Duello_](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28899561) (4492 words)
> 
> “Mr. Joseph Jones agreed to meet Capt. Nicolas Smith for a personal interview in Hyde Park, armed with two pistols and a friend.”
> 
> _[Masquerade](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28753236) _ (3585 words)
> 
> “Yusuf al-Kaysani studied the crowd that had grown to fill the King’s Theatre for a masquerade ball, looking for Nicolò di Genova. He’d not thought to ask about his costume, such was his confidence he could recognize his spouse no matter how he disguised himself.”
> 
> [ _Salama_](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27474940) (6686 words)
> 
> “Nicoló di Genova felt the fabric of the bulky garment Yusuf had asked him to wear. They needed to enter a town, one certainly frequented by men who had fought for the Fatimids at Jerusalem and were now returning home, for supplies. Unless they disguised his Frankish features, like his light-coloured eyes and the pale skin of his hands, they feared that he might be killed or taken hostage if his identity became known. Nicoló would need to cover all his features with a veil to ensure his safety in the presence of all other men besides his mahram—his escort—Yusuf.”
> 
> _& many more._

* * *

# LOVELL

#### by caldefrance

* * *

> #### LOVELL
> 
> First published on Archive of Our Own, a project of The Organization for Transformative Works (OTW).
> 
> All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy by reposting this work to another site or server in violation of the author’s rights.
> 
> _Lovell_ is a work of fanfiction. The story is based on Julia Quinn's _Bridgerton_ novels and the Netflix movie _The Old Guard_ (2020); however, the author has changed the names and certain details of the characters and events described. All names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
> 
> Cover art: “Beauty Unmasked” (1770) by Henry Morland (Lewis Walpole Library, Yale University)
> 
> Illustrations by sketchify

* * *

_For my writing partner, Felix, who kept asking me to write this unconventional love story._

* * *

> #### CONTENTS

  * [Cover & Front Matter](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29636667/chapters/72861759)



>   * [Chapter 1 ( **Dower** )](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29636667/chapters/72861891)
  * [Chapter 2 ( **Charade** )](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29636667/chapters/73660623)
  * Chapter 3 [March 22, 2021]
  * Chapter 4 [April 5, 2021]
  * Chapter 5 [April 19, 2021]



>   * [Forthcoming May 2021]



>   * [Forthcoming September 2021]



  * Epilogue & Back-cover



* * *

> "Matrimony, among the French, seems to be a bargain entered into by a male and female to bear the same name, live in the same house, and pursue their separate pleasures without restraint or control."
> 
> — _Sketches of the History, Genius, Disposition, Accomplishments, Employments, Customs and Importance of the Fair Sex, in all parts of the world, interspersed with many singular and entertaining anecdotes_ (1790), by "a Friend to the Sex."


	2. Book I; Chapter 1 (Dower)

_Prologue_

The Honourable Mr. Nicolas Smithson Lovell would always remember the moment before he’d opened the letter from home as the last time he felt perfectly happy.

It was true that Nicolas was born into an ancient and wealthy family, but unlike his brother Robert, the younger son of Thomas, fifth Viscount Lovell, and his wife had never felt burdened by duty or obligation. As a younger son, and not the heir to the viscountcy, no one expected Nicolas to take a wife and produce heirs of his own. Primogeniture, the rule by which aristocratic estates were entailed or held in trust by a landowner for the transmission of the patrimony intact to his eldest son, meant that his second son was free to live his own life as he saw fit.

As a child, he’d played at knights in shining armour and damsels in distress, and he’d taken long hikes with his siblings across the park of the family seat in Northumberland. As a young man, he’d learned to ride and shoot and hunt, and he’d discovered he loved men.

His station in life had allowed him admittance to society’s most exclusive spaces dedicated to men and their interests. He’d attended first Eton and then Oxford, and he subscribed to a number of gentlemen’s clubs in London. He’d enjoyed fencing at H. Angelo’s School of Arms, where gentlemen were entitled to the use of the premises three days a week from twelve till three. He’d entered inconsequential wagers in the Betting Book at White’s and won game after game of whist in the Card Room at Brooks’s. He had also frequented a very different kind of club near Vauxhall, where two men could marry and celebrate their nuptials for an hour.

He’d never concerned himself with affairs of state or with finding a wife in those years. Neither had he ever had cause to think he’d ever wish to give up his place in society.

It was funny, Nicolas reflected later, how a man’s understanding of his station in life could be altered forever in an instant.

The first time it happened, Nicolas was twenty-one years of age and recently-arrived in London after completing his studies at Oxford with a red carnation pinned to his coat lapel. He’d gladly traded his academic dress for a fencing kit and had become a fixture at the fencing academy in Bond Street. The master there regularly held matches so students might test their skills against an opponent, as in a duel, simulating a serious fight with sharps. Fencing, like duelling or dancing, was governed by a strict set of rules dictating the comportment of participants. They were obliged to greet the master and those present, but forbidden from interrupting lessons or critiquing the performance of others. They were expected to acknowledge touches received and not to claim touches denied by their opponents. They were expected to return a disarmed opponent’s weapon. And, above all else, students and guests were to be treated with equal respect—regardless of one’s title or rank. Nicolas, ever eager to test himself, fenced with other students and strangers alike on the nights set aside for assaulting. This is how Nicolas met Joseph, a stranger who’d come to mean more than kith and kin to him.

Nicolas and Joseph first met each other as opponents, standing on opposite ends of the _piste_ with their foils—a flexible, light-weight weapon with a tip blunted by a button affixed to its point—held out in an obligatory salute.

With the fencing master’s permission, they advanced cautiously toward each other. The wire masks they wore to protect themselves from injury also thoroughly obscured their features and their intentions from view. They would first need to take the measure of their opponent—of the other’s reach and disposition—by brandishing their quivering foils at each other before trying to seize the advantage.

When a beat or two passed without either man engaging the other, they were encouraged by the master to either attack or forfeit the first point.

Nicolas, who had realized his opponent had the advantage of height and reach on him, attacked first. He lunged forward, with his arm outstretched, but missed when his opponent parried the blow with a _contre de six_ _te_. By swiftly knocking the point of his foil aside and seizing the advantage, his opponent gave a _riposte_ that ended with the blunt tip of his opponent’s foil pricking at his torso.

“ _Touché_ ,” Nicolas admitted, conceding that he’d lost the point to a skilled duellist. If Nicolas wanted to prove himself his equal, he would need to move swiftly and decisively to win the next point.

Nicolas should have withdrawn then, feigning an indisposition or simply fatigue, because the _contretemps_ had fired up his blood. He was about to break one of fencing’s unspoken rules for assaulting: to withdraw if they ever perceived an assault was becoming heated.

Nicolas’s grip tightened on the hilt of his foil. His whole body felt tight under his leather jacket as he turned to face his opponent again, in anticipation of the next bout. As he raised his arm to assume the _en garde_ position, he was overcome with a mounting desire to reach past his opponent’s defences and score a touch of his own.

“ _Prêt. Allez_!”

This time, Nicolas reacted quickly when his opponent feinted. Taking advantage of the man’s backward step, he rushed forward in an explosive motion.

Nicolas had attempted a running attack—known as a _flèche_ —that his opponent wouldn’t expect and couldn’t guard against. It was a risky strategy discouraged by most fencing masters, attempted only for the sake of scoring a point at the risk of taking a hit. In a duel, a single hit could leave a fighter _hors-combat_ or, worse, dead.

Nicolas bounded forward, extending his arm to hit his opponent squarely on his shoulder, but when they made contact something snapped.

“Enough!” the master bellowed at Nicolas, putting an end to the assault when the blade of his foil had broken a few inches from the weapon’s guard. “Lovell, I’m charging the price of a foil to your account!”

Nicolas couldn’t find it in himself to care about the fine, however. He’d seen his opponent’s face when he removed his mask to run a teasing hand through his sable hair, which he wore in loose curls. He’d been struck by the fact that the man who was so superior to him in his skill with a foil was also young and quite attractive. He didn’t look anything like the toffee-nosed boys Nicolas had known all his life and had always kept at arm’s length.

When the handsome stranger turned to meet his gaze, Nicolas saw that he had the largest, most achingly-expressive eyes he’d ever seen. They were confounding to him. They looked bright even though they were dark in colour, and livened by small crinkles that appeared when he smiled at him.

“Lord Lovell, I presume?”

Nicolas felt the tenor of the man’s voice stir something inside him and, like anyone who’d ever been mistaken for someone else, he was compelled to answer.

“No, my brother is the viscount,” Nicolas said, hastily removing his own mask and tucking it beneath one arm so he could hold out his other hand in greeting. “I am Mr. Nicolas Lovell.”

“Joseph Johnson,” he said, introducing himself, as they shook hands.

Nicolas was surprised again when the man—Joseph—introduced himself without any mention of a title or an honorific. Any other man who frequented the same club aswell-heeled politicians and aristocrats making a new acquaintance would have taken pains to identify themselves, their significant relations, and their most fashionable friends. The self-assurance with which Joseph introduced himself to Nicolas marked him as a man who made his way through the world on his own terms, all the while collecting both friends and beautiful things.

Knowing Joseph would change Nicolas’s own understanding of his place in society. As it turned out, Joseph didn’t much care for society’s rules and chose to live his own life as he saw fit. After that first meeting, Joseph would choose to befriend and consort with Nicolas. Though Nicolas had never let himself form a close attachment with another man and run the risk of a scandal if it were ever known, he let himself be persuaded by Joseph’s arguments—which included common sense, companionship, and a clever trick he’d perfected with his tongue. Within a year of that first meeting, Joseph would also convince Nicolas they had to remove themselves from England before any society matron could begin to speculate about two confirmed bachelors with an unusual attachment.

For four years now, Nicolas had lived with Joseph in Malta. They’d taken up residence in a small limestone house there and taken on a local housekeeper who worked half-days cleaning and cooking for them, so they might live together openly in a way they never could have in England.

They slept together every night and, upon waking, they breakfasted together every morning—just like a married couple.

It was true that society couples rarely ate breakfast together. The ladies of the _ton_ so often chose to take breakfast in bed, separately from their husbands. Indeed, Nicolas could hardly remember whether his own aristocratic parents had ever enjoyed breakfast together. Nevertheless, Nicolas liked to think that if he were married to someone like Joseph, he’d enjoy breakfasting together with his spouse like this.

Nicolas and Joseph habitually shared a spread of hard bread, goat cheese, fruit, cold meats, and honey laid out for them by their housekeeper at a stone table in the courtyard garden until the sun rose in earnest and forced them to close the house for the day.

“Would you look at that sky, Nico!” Joseph leaned back in his chair and the wide collar of his loose linen shirt slipped a little, revealing some of the hair growing on his chest that Nicolas usually found distracting. “I swear you can’t find that colour blue anywhere in England. I wish that I had some way to capture it.”

Nicolas didn’t respond to Joseph’s idle comment, which he liked to make whenever they ate outside, nor did he notice when his lover reached over to steal a section of a pomegranate from his plate.

Nicolas was distracted that morning by a letter he’d received from England. A letter of any kind would have been a rare enough occurrence given the ongoing war between Britain and France over control of the Mediterranean, but he couldn’t remember ever receiving a letter from home before.

It was with his heart in his throat that he’d broken the black wax seal right at the breakfast table so he might learn without delay why his sister Andrea had written to him.

> _Seaton Delaval Hall_
> 
> _Northumberland_
> 
> _January 25, 1798_
> 
> _Nico,_
> 
> _I can’t be certain when this letter will find you, though I suspect you’ll not have heard from the solicitors yet. It’s always better to hear difficult news from a family member, I think. And so I take no pleasure in writing to inform you that Robert_ _has died._ _I_ _t’s come as a complete shock to the rest of the household. There will be an inquest, though they’ll undoubtedly rule it a death by misadventure. Arrangements have already been made for the funeral: our latest vicar, Rev. Peters_ _, a man_ _I find neither very good nor_ _very_ _honourable, agreed under some duress he should be buried in the family plot next to little Lionel._
> 
> _Come home, Nico. You’re needed here._
> 
> _Yrs_
> 
> _Andrea Lovell_

He, too, was taken by surprise by the news of his brother’s passing. As soon as he understood the contents of the letter, he slammed the paper face down against the breakfast table in a motion that made all the dishes rattle dangerously.

Nicolas tried to remember how Robert had looked when he’d last seen him four years ago. All he could remember of his brother was that his grip had been strong, virile even, when they’d parted ways in Portsmouth.

“Nico? Has something happened?”

Nicolas looked at Joseph with wide eyes, feeling unprepared to even speak the news aloud. He was struck with an irrational fear that the life they’d built for themselves in Malta would crumble like a sand-castle if he said anything about it.

Nicolas swallowed the growing knot in his throat and forced himself to speak the words he’d read. “Robert’s died.”

Joseph’s brow furrowed in confusion. Joseph was well aware Nicolas had siblings and he knew their names, though he’d never been introduced to them. “Is this your brother Robert?”

Nicolas nodded, feeling as though his composure might break if he said anything else, and Joseph reached out to take his hand across the table.

“I’m that sorry to hear it, Nico. Did the letter say how it happened?”

“No,” Nicolas sighed, taking a shaky breath before turning the letter over to read it again. The paper had been stained red in places with pomegranate juice, smearing some of Andrea’s words and making them hard to read, though the substance of the letter remained unchanged. “It only says there’s going to be an inquest.”

“I see.”

A coroner might be called to investigate whenever there is reason to suspect a death was violent or unnatural, or the cause unknown. Robert Lovell’s death might have been an accident, or self-murder, but there was no doubt it had been unexpected.

Nicolas didn’t even know whether Robert had left behind a will and testament. Robert hadn’t ever married or acknowledged any children, though he’d succeeded their father to the viscountcy seven years ago.

Nicolas felt a knot settle deep in the pit of his stomach when he realized that he would undoubtedly succeed his brother Robert as the sixth Viscount Lovell.

In that moment, his understanding of his station in life changed forever. No longer could he choose to live his own life as he saw fit as Mr. Nicolas Lovell. As Lord Lovell, managing Seaton Delaval Hall and the surrounding estate, ensuring the welfare of the tenants, as well as seeing his sisters married and settled would all fall to him.

A sense of responsibility settled on his shoulders like a burden and it broke the illusory sense of happiness Nicolas had found with Joseph, living in this Mediterranean idyll.

Nicolas withdrew his hand from Joseph’s and busied himself with folding the letter up again. “I must return to England.”

“What for? Even if you’re blessed with fair weather, the journey will still take weeks. You’ll have missed the funeral.”

Nicolas was a poor seaman and he didn’t relish the thought of a three-week passage on a ship around Gibraltar and the Iberian peninsula. Neither did he feel like he had a choice in the matter.

“I still have to go.”

“For how long?” Joseph asked, his words slow and uncertain, as he struggled to contemplate the prospect of a weeks-long separation.

“I can’t say. I am needed in England.”

“But I need you here,” Joseph insisted, in a pleading tone of voice that Nicolas hadn’t ever heard him use before.

Malta had offered Nicolas and Joseph the chance to build a life together—a chance they could never have enjoyed in England—and they’d left everything behind to take it. Now, all that Nicolas had left behind in England was calling him back.

“Don’t you see how this news changes everything?” Nicolas asked, choking on the words.

“Not for me. I love you, Nicolas Lovell.”

Joseph’s words cut Nicolas to the quick. Joseph had never before said those words to Nicolas, which made him feel like a blackguard for wishing he’d never heard them. Spending all their time together had been easy, declaring their feelings aloud had been too hard.

Nicolas ran his hands over his face and when he lowered them again, he’d regained control of himself. He rose to his feet and when he spoke, his tone remained carefully even. “I share your feelings, I do, but they’re only feelings.”

“I don’t understand.” Joseph’s eyes were shining as he looked up at Nicolas. “What are you saying?”

Nicolas gripped the back of his chair, as though the wrought iron would lend him the strength he needed not to break his resolve. The last thing he wanted to do was break their understanding, but the only words that would come to mind were heartbreaking. He said them anyway. “There is no covenant between us. No matter how I feel, society will never recognize our union.”

“Then hang society!”

Nicolas looked up at Joseph, shocked by his outburst. In that moment, overwhelmed by grief and heartbreak, Nicolas found Joseph’s easy dismissal of society’s rules provoking. “It isn’t that simple anymore,” he bit back. “I have to return to England, to assume my position as head of my family, which you’d understand if you had any of your own left to care for.”

Joseph stood abruptly, making the legs of his chair scrape with a grating noise against the courtyard’s flagstones. His parting words weren’t any less harsh. “Then may I be the first to offer you my condolences, Lord Lovell.”

Nicolas bit his tongue and let Joseph have the last word that day, but he regretted that they weren’t reconciled before he needed to leave for England.

* * *

A month later, Nicolas had returned home to Seaton Delaval Hall in Northumberland. He’d missed the coroner’s inquest and the funeral and the visits from the neighbouring gentry who’d come to offer their condolences. Though he’d yet to meet with the family solicitor to read his brother’s will and the estate’s deed of settlement, everyone—the household staff, the estate’s agent, and the tenants—already regarded him as the master of the house. They asked where his lordship preferred to sleep and how he took his tea, what to plant and who to contract with, and would he like to see the year’s first calf. Nicolas rode out alone every morning, with only his own thoughts for company, so he might escape the questions everyone had for Lord Lovell.

Nicolas found he still hesitated to answer to his title, as though he expected his brother or even his father to answer for him. He didn’t know how to act in his new role, as head of the family and master of these lands. He didn’t know what to say or where to stand or how to react when everyone but his sisters deferred to him. Soon enough, he’d need to assume his role and act as Lord Lovell, but he was still grieving for his life as Mr. Nicolas Lovell.

He missed the life Nicolas Lovell had lived with Joseph Johnson in Malta.

As often as he could, he escaped from his duties at Seaton Delaval Hall to lead his bay horse out to stand on the windswept bluffs overlooking the Northumbrian coastline. The craggy coastline and tidal islands buffeted by the North Sea bore little resemblance to a Mediterranean island, but it was the closest he could come to it.

It wasn’t that the prospect of brown sands and dark waves reminded Nicolas of the bright limestone cliffs and crystalline waters he remembered. Rather, the bitter wind that chilled him through the thick fabric of his riding coat only served to remind him that he was no longer in Malta.

If Nicolas had the time, he would choose to stand watch along the Northumbrian coastline until he felt the truth of his present circumstances in his bones.

“Nico!”

Nicolas turned in his saddle, towards the sound of the rough voice that had called out to him and interrupted his melancholic thoughts, and caught sight of his sister Andrea riding towards him on her grey horse.

His sister, a woman several years senior to him, was easily recognizable in her _redingote à la Hussarde_ —a scarlet riding habit with military details like epaulettes and black trim with gold braid and buttons—with only a black armband to suggest she mourned the loss of her older brother. It was an expertly-tailored ensemble she liked to wear in and out of the saddle, as she found the masculine outfit suited her bold personality. If she ever chose to wear a periwig to cover her long brown hair and a pair of her brother’s britches, she could easily have taken his seat in the House of Lords.

As she came closer, Nicolas saw that naturally enough for her she’d chosen to ride astride her horse to come and find him. She really was an excellent rider, but somehow she’d convinced the men of her family that riding side-saddle—as was appropriate for a lady—was too dangerous. Was it really so surprising that his head-strong sister had always gotten her way?

Nicolas did not doubt that Andrea would have joined the Light Dragoons, the British Army’s cavalry, if she could have found a regiment willing to take her sex.

“There you are,” Andrea said, once she’d reached his side. “We were beginning to worry we’d misplaced you.”

Nicolas gave Andrea a smile that tried to hide just how lost he felt. “Not you, too.”

“It would seem that I’m not the Lovell that everyone is looking for,” Andrea said, poking her brother with the end of her long dressage whip.

Nicolas batted her stick away before she could spook his horse. “I find that rather hard to believe.”

His eldest sister was, quite simply, a beauty. She had fair skin and lustrous brown hair that softened the angles of her face when she wore it curled. She had a piercing gaze and a tendency for directness in her speech that set her apart from all the other society ladies who were unable to discuss topics other than food or the _modiste_. More than that she held herself well, with her back straight and her head tall, commanding the attention of whatever room she graced with her presence.

If she’d ever wanted to marry, she could have taken any number of country squires or peers of the realm for a husband, but until now she’d taken pleasure in refusing anyone who offered for her.

Andrea loosened her grip on her reins to sweep her long brown hair over her shoulder after the wind had blown it out of place. “I’m told that it’s a lawfully-begotten male heir that’s wanted,” she said, pointedly.

“I beg your pardon?”

Andrea gave Nicolas an arch look while she drew up her reins again when her mount tried to graze on a tuft of windswept grass. “I figured you’d forgotten that we’re meeting with the solicitor this morning at eleven.”

Nicolas took his own reins in one hand and checked the time on the pocket watch that had been his brother’s. “Damn. We’re going to be late.”

“Indeed.” Andrea clucked and urged her horse to turn back towards Seaton Delaval. “I’ll race you back to the house!” she called out, before urging her horse into a canter.

“Damn it! Andrea!”

Nicolas’s own mount didn’t wait to be asked to follow hers home, launching into a fast-moving trot before breaking into a full gallop.

Nicolas and Andrea rode at a break-neck pace down the bridleway that connected Whitley Bay to Seaton Delaval Hall. Nicolas’s breath caught as he felt his horse, a young thoroughbred, bunch up his posteriors beneath him before springing forward over the winter-hardened ground. Ahead of Nicolas, the skirts of Andrea’s riding habit billowed behind her, flashing red and gold, every time her grey horse lifted off from the ground between each galloping stride. Both horses were breathing hard and the air was filled with the sound of thundering hoofbeats as they raced recklessly toward home.

The bridleway ascended gradually for half a mile until it reached the top of a considerable eminence, and they caught sight of Seaton Delaval Hall. It was a large, palatial, stone building built in the baroque style with two wings connected by an arcade to a central block designed to evoke either the _corps de logis_ of a medieval castle or the more-recently built palaces at Blenheim and Versailles. The buildings formed a _cour d’honneur_ surrounded by well-maintained lawns and backed by a ridge of trees. The whole complex looked stately and imposing, even from this distance, and the sight of it filled Nicolas with dread. Each time he came upon it, he felt that to be lord and master of Seaton Delaval meant something he’d never feel prepared to take on.

Nicolas leaned back in his seat and pulled on his reins, encouraging his horse to break his mad gallop down into a posting trot, letting Andrea race ahead of him.

By the time he reached the house’s east wing, which housed the stables, a groom was waiting to take care of his horse. Nicolas dismounted and handed the man the thoroughbred’s reins before turning to address his mad sister.

“Never do that again,” he scolded her, trying to act more like his father than himself.

Andrea laughed him off. “I’ve been racing down that bridleway since before you were breached. I’m not about to stop now that you’re home.”

Though Nicolas found it frustrating, he resigned himself to the reality that he wouldn’t be able to curb her thrill-seeking behaviour that day, and headed inside.

Nicolas found his other sister, Nile, just inside the central block’s main entrance. To his dismay, however, he found the black woman he called his sister standing atop a scaffold a dozen feet above the hall’s black and white marbled floor.

“Nile! What in God’s name are you doing?”

“Oh, there you are,” Nile said, calling down to him from her perch. “Did Andrea find you?”

“Yes, she did,” Nicolas answered quickly, refusing to be distracted by the question. “You didn’t answer my question! Are you going to come down here or must I go up there?”

“I’m rather busy!”

“What?”

“I said,” she nearly shouted, “I’m rather busy!”

Nicolas took a few steps back to take a better look, and he could see his sister was dressed in a smock and appeared to be examining one of the statues set in an alcove at the first-floor level.

“What are you doing to that statue?” Nicolas asked, surprised and appalled his sister would risk a dangerous fall for a closer look at an artwork.

“If you must know, all the artwork in the house needs to be examined for signs of dirt or damage every winter. These particular stuccoes are permanently affixed to the walls of the hall and impossible to access without a purpose-built scaffold like this.”

Nicolas looked around for the butler or one of the footman who might relieve her. “Might we not ask one of the staff to perform a task like that?”

“There’s really no need,” she said, waving off his suggestion. “I like the responsibility. Since you’ve been gone, I’ve taken an interest in the artworks the Lovells have collected. Did you know we had two landscapes by Poussin? I also found a portrait of the third viscount that I think is a Gainsborough.”

“Hm.” None of the names Nile mentioned with enthusiasm evident in her voice meant anything to Nicolas. His familiarity with fine art began and ended with the difference between a portrait and a landscape. However, he doubted this was an appropriate use of his sister’s time. While he supposed well-heeled females might become patrons of the arts, he did know that many academies did not admit female members on the grounds that artists studied casts of antique sculptures and male nudes to paint large-scale compositions.

Nicolas was only prevented from speaking his mind on the subject, in the same tone he’d adopted earlier with his other sister, by an interruption at his elbow.

“Mr. Andrews has arrived, your lordship. I’ve shown him into the library.”

Mr. Malcolm, the butler at Seaton Delaval Hall, was a middle-aged Scot who’d married the daughter of the previous butler and subsequently inherited the role. Nile and Andrea clearly thought the world of him, and so Nicolas saw no reason to make changes to the running of the house when he’d returned.

Nicolas was now left wondering how much his sisters had involved themselves in the running of the house.

“Shall I send in one of the maids with tea?” the butler asked, prompting Nicolas for an answer when he didn’t say anything right away.

“No,” Nicolas said, quickly checking the face of his pocket-watch again. They were late. “Mr. Andrews is here on business.”

Nile had in that time climbed down from the scaffolding to join them. She’d also removed her plain linen smock, revealing a pomona green pelisse over a white morning dress with long-sleeves. Nicolas thought the colour was hardly appropriate for a lady in mourning, though he had to admit that it suited his sister’s colouring.

Nile wasn’t a classical beauty like Andrea, but she had an eye for colour that she played to her advantage. Whereas Andrea’s colouring was fair, Nile had jet-black hair she wore in thick braids and dark skin that looked luminous when she wore green or puce fabrics and gold jewellery. Nile’s features were well-proportioned and soft, rounded where Andrea’s were angular, and still graced with the first flush of youth. Nile could dress like a fashion plate and she knew how to stand and walk and behave in society.

Nile might not have been considered an “incomparable” during her first London season, but Nicolas was certain she’d make a fine wife and mistress of a household if she ever chose to marry.

“Shall we go into the library?” Nicolas asked Nile, offering her his arm.

The library at Seaton Delaval Hall was another grand room located on the ground floor of the main block, full of leather-bound volumes on shelves that wrapped around the room and comfortable leather-covered seating.

Nicolas and Nile had taken seats on one sofa, across from Andrews, a portly man who’d been the Lovell family’s solicitor since the fourth viscount’s marriage settlement was first drafted. Andrea had declined an invitation to sit, choosing to stand on the periphery of the room where she could stare out the French doors at the south lawn—or, make her escape.

The solicitor—who reminded Nicolas of the lecturers at Oxford, where he’d read law—had carefully arranged sheaves of paper sealed with wax on a small table. These documents included the deed to the estate and the deed of settlement, a list of Robert Lovell’s personal assets and debts, and a copy of his last will and testament.

The surviving Lovell siblings were well aware that the contents of these documents would dictate not only who controlled the family estate in Northumberland and their property in London, but also the women’s prospects—if they were to be provided for.

At long last, Andrews cleared his throat to begin the proceedings. “Sir, are you familiar with the terms of the strict settlement signed by your father in 1766?”

It wasn’t a family secret that Nicolas’s father, who’d been the fourth Viscount Lovell, had renewed the terms of an entail established by his grandfather when he came of age and married. The strict settlement established Thomas Lovell as a tenant for life and his lawfully-begotten eldest son, Robert, as tenant-in-tail. The settlement also provided dowries for his daughters and portions for his younger sons. Robert’s untimely death, without issue, would not break the entail that tied up control of the estate with the inheritance of the peerage as the term was fixed at the tenant-in-tail’s life plus twenty-one years.

Nicolas had prepared for this question like an undergraduate prepared for tutorial, and answered, “I believe it names trustees to manage the estate until a lawfully-begotten male heir is named sixth Viscount Lovell. Unless the estate is re-settled, that person acquires dominion over the property after a term of twenty-one years.”

“Quite right,” Andrews said, confirming Nicolas’s understanding. “That person will be expected to marry, and when he does both the estate’s trustees and the bride’s family will expect that person to re-settle the estate on the next generation.”

Though they spoke in hypotheticals, of an unnamed heir, there was no question Nicolas would inherit.

Nicolas was well aware that he would be expected to marry a woman and sire an heir now that his father and elder brother had died, but he disliked any reminders of it. Nicolas wished then that he had asked Malcolm for some tea, so he might focus on the tea service instead of his duty to see the Lovell family line continue.

Andrews, perhaps sensing Nicolas’s discomfort about that subject, reached for another of the sealed documents he’d placed before him. “Let’s proceed then to the matter of your brother’s personal assets. I have here before me the last will and testament of Robert Lovell, fifth Viscount Lovell, which I will now begin to read.”

> _Seaton Delaval Hall_
> 
> _November 3, 1791_
> 
> _I am now called upon, by the rules of primogeniture, to accept the title and rights of a peer of the realm as 5th Viscount Lovell upon my father’s death. God can only know the event, and into his hands I commit my soul, of my own death. I therefore declare this to be my last will and testament and do hereby revoke all former will I have made at any time. In the first place I commit my soul to Almighty God, in hopes of his mercy and pardon. I settle the entirety of the Lovell estates inalienably upon the 6th Viscount Lovell, and hope the Almighty will bless him, as he has not seen fit to endow me, with a long life and a fruitful wife. I leave my dear brother, Nicolas Lovell, all that I am possessed in the expectation that he will inherit the viscountcy and the estate, reserving a sufficient sum to pay my debts and bequests. I leave my sisters, Andrea and Nile, who both vowed to me they’d never marry, a further inducement of 1500l. per annum for their marriage settlement, in addition to the dowry settled on them by my late father, and hope they will find happiness in the state of marriage which their sex refused to bestow on me. I give to my cousin, Mary Delaney, daughter of Captain James Delaney, a guinea for a ring or any other bauble she may like better which I request my brother will pay her, for refusing my suit so she could marry the captain of an Indiaman and thereby saving my estate the expense of maintaining separate households or providing a dowager’s jointure._
> 
> _Rob. Lovell_
> 
> _P.S. I commit this document into the hands of the family solicitor, John Andrews, Esq._

“According to this document,” Andrews explained, for the benefit of those members of his audience who hadn’t received a legal education, “the late Lord Lovell has bequeathed the entirety of the Lovell estates to Mr. Nicolas Lovell, in accordance with the terms of the strict settlement. He also dowers each of his sisters with £1,500 a year—”

Andrea swore and Nicolas turned, shocked, to look up at her. She had turned her back to them to lean against a window frame with her hand curled into a fist, and he wondered whether she’d erupt into violence.

Andrews coughed, but otherwise didn’t acknowledge the interruption. “That is, in addition to the dowry of £2,000 a year the fourth viscount—your father—provided for them to marry.”

“I won’t do it,” Andrea swore.

“Andrea!” Nicolas shouted, rising to his feet, when she chose to storm out of the room, rather than stay and listen to whatever else her male relatives had decided for her life.

Even Nile, who hadn’t moved from her seat beside Nicolas, looked upset at what she’d heard.

Nicolas had to wonder why his brother had seen fit to make two women, who’d vowed to him they’d never marry, into heiresses with double dowries.

“Is there no way they may be provided a portion or jointure outright by the Lovell estate?” he asked, taking his seat and gesturing for the solicitor to do the same.

“I’m afraid the terms of the strict settlement would prohibit it, my lord. It would take an act of Parliament to do that.”

Nicolas, who’d never wished to openly challenge the established way of doing things, thought it sounded like an impossible solution.

“And if I should die without issue, like my brother?”

Andrews took the time to mop his brow with his handkerchief again before giving his answer. “If you were to die in a year—and this is only for the sake of argument—the estate would be held in trust until one of your cousins or another distant relation inherited the peerage.”

And, Nicolas supposed, his sisters would be forced to marry in haste or rely on the charity and good-will of whomever inherited Seaton Delaval Hall.

“Now, it may be possible to renegotiate the terms of the entail if you decided to marry, say, Miss Fairchild.”

Nicolas and Nile glanced at each other, sharing a horrified look. Though they treated each other like siblings, Nicolas and Nile were in fact cousins.

Nile Fairchild was the acknowledged, though illegitimate, daughter of Admiral Sir John Lovell. Thomas, fourth Viscount Lovell, had taken her in when his younger brother had died at the battle of Cuddalore in 1783. When three-year-old Nile had arrived at Seaton Delaval Hall, she’d joined Robert, Andrea, and Nicolas in the nursery and they’d treated her as a daughter of the house ever since.

It was true that many members of their social class considered marriage between cousins an expedient solution, a convenient way to maintain a family’s control over land and wealth. However, the Lovell family strongly discouraged these endogamous matches: spouses were to be sought outside the family.

“Thank you, Mr. Andrews,” Nicolas said, rising to his feet before either he or his sister could decide to say something regrettable. “I don’t believe we’ll need to apply for a marriage license at this juncture.”

“Of course, my lord.” The solicitor had also risen to his feet. “You will need to claim the peerage to take over the management of the estate from the trustees. With your permission, I will draft a petition requesting a writ of summons to Parliament on your behalf.”

No one could renounce an English title, however one did need to petition the Crown to claim it. They would need to draft a petition stating the way in which the peerage claimed was originally created, whether by charter or patent, and set out the facts showing that, according to the limitations of its creation, the peerage in question has descended to the claimant in considerable detail. It was not enough to state generally that the peerage claimed had descended to the claimant, the line of descent needed to be traced. The claimant would need to provide evidence of his birth, his parents’ marriage, his brother’s death, as well as the fact that his brother had no legitimate male issue. It would take weeks to assemble all the documents and present the case, a task which Nicolas could hardly imagine undertaking in addition to all his other new responsibilities.

“Please, do.” Nicolas rang a bell on the side-table. “Malcolm will see you out.”

Nicolas waited until the solicitor had left and the library door had closed behind him before he turned to his sister. “You’ve been unusually quiet.”

“You’ve been unusually over-bearing,” Nile snapped, turning his words back on him.

“Hm _._ ” Nicolas couldn’t disagree. Though he was loathe to admit it, he hadn’t felt like himself since he’d learned of his brother’s death.

Nile let out a breath she’d been holding since the solicitor had proposed marriage and her brother had refused. She then rose to her feet, smoothing the skirt of her round dress. “This whole situation is—”

“Intolerable?” Nicolas suggested.

“Bullshit. I told him—more than once—that I did not wish to marry! How is it so incomprehensible to a man that a woman should ever refuse to marry? A man who marries takes a wife. A lady who marries takes an unconscionable risk. If he weren’t dead—”

“I know,” Nicolas said, sharing her feelings where his late brother was concerned, though his voice was softer than hers had been. “But I don’t suppose we have any other choice but to marry.”

None of the Lovell siblings had married, each for their own reasons, but it seemed that they wouldn’t have a choice now. As the sixth Viscount Lovell, Nicolas was duty-bound to father an heir. His sisters, Andrea and Nile, needed husbands to provide for them in the event of his untimely death, and so he felt it would also be his responsibility to see his sisters married well—and sooner rather than later.

They would all travel to London in a few weeks time, once Nicolas received the writ of summons from Parliament, to claim his title. **Nicolas, who would then be known as Lord Lovell, was determined to see at least one of his sisters** **settled** **before the end of the London social season.**


	3. Book I; Chapter 2 (Charade)

Miss Nile Fairchild carefully considered the choice that had been proposed to her. Would she prefer to wear pearls or a diamond _parure_ with her dress that evening?

In truth, she would have preferred to remain with her pictures in the country.

The Lovells had relocated to London the week before, alongside all the other well-heeled families for the social season, so they might frequent establishments like Almack’s Assembly Rooms—colloquially known as society’s Marriage Mart.

There were so many rules and restrictions that Nile had to follow as an unmarried lady living in London: she couldn’t go for a walk in a park or to the shops, or even be seen with someone outside her family, without a chaperone present; she couldn’t even speak with someone to whom she hadn’t been introduced; nor could she dance more than twice with a man she didn’t intend to marry.

Needless to say, Nile had no intention of marrying anyone.

As a precocious reader, she’d studied the kinds of stories men told about women in novels. Reading about the experiences of 'Pamela' and 'Clarissa' through the correspondence between these young women and their families had shaped her opinions on marriage. Nile understood that women like Pamela and Clarissa were caught in a marriage plot: marriage was presented to them either as an escape from desperate circumstances or a life sentence in order to safeguard their virtue. Women who made poor choices in these stories always seemed to meet sorry ends: they were ruined, killed, or—worse—found themselves imprisoned in their own homes. Nile, who was risk-averse even as a child, promised herself she would never fall into the trap that society had laid for her: she would never marry.

Children, she’d decided at the tender age of thirteen, were a complication she wished to avoid. She saw no reason for her life to be visited by that particular miracle if it meant compromising her reputation and well-being.

Convincing her brother of this, however, would forever be beyond her powers. Robert, who’d been her elder by fourteen years and had played head of the family for seven years before he died, expected she’d change her mind once she was out in society. “You may think that way now, but you haven’t yet seen anything of the world,” he’d said to her with all the superciliousness a man could possess.

Nicolas, who’d assumed Robert’s role when he died, was now determined to see his will carried out. Her younger brother, who usually deflected whenever mention of marriage was made, had become singularly-focused on seeing his double-dowried sisters married in recent weeks. Since he was managing the family’s social calendar, he’d accepted nearly every invitation that arrived on a silver platter.

This week alone, they’d attended the Pitt tea, the Howard ball, and called on the Northumbrian Percys. Tonight—and it was only Wednesday—they were set to attend a ball at Almack’s.

Two years ago, when Nile had first come out in society, she’d been thrilled to receive a rare ticket to Almack’s. One didn’t need to be marriage-minded to enjoy wearing finery and dancing with fashionable strangers. However, her experience of an evening at Almack’s had been something of a disappointment. Everyone to whom she was introduced had been polite enough, but more often than not she’d found herself sitting with the chaperones when no one asked her to dance.

She’d attracted the same number of suitors during her second season (none), but if she were being honest, she hadn’t minded it. She’d been allowed to purchase a completely new wardrobe that year. Selecting fabrics and sitting through fittings had been enough to distract her from the seeming indifference with which she was treated by members of the _ton_.

If she had to participate in the whole charade for a third season, it wasn’t with the expectation that they would treat her any differently.

Nicolas, who’d never stayed in London for the entire duration of the social season, seemed to think that either she or her sister would form an attachment with an appropriate suitor at one of these events and accept an offer of marriage within weeks. Nile wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that he’d entered a wager to that effect in the famed Betting Book at White’s.

> _February 26, 1798—Lord Montrose bets Sir John Church one hundred guineas to five that an event between them understood takes place before another event which was named._
> 
> _March 4, 1798—Mr. Blake bets Lord Rokeby fifty guineas to five Napoleon captures Malta within three months of this day._
> 
> _March 8, 1798—Lord Lovell bets Mr. Lucian Talbot one hundred guineas that Miss Fairchild is married before Miss Lovell or Michaelmas 1798._

Of course, if it were down to the number of suitors alone, odds were that Andrea would marry before Nile. No matter what she wore, no matter how she dressed her hair or powdered her nose, no one would look at her twice so long as she stood in the same room as her sister. Andrea’s popularity was a well-established fact and, besides, Nile wasn’t certain that she’d like all the attention her sister received.

If she focused too much on the injustice of her position, however she’d only drive herself mad with frustration. She had to focus instead on the choices she could make, even if these decisions seemed inconsequential.

“Let’s have the pearls,” Nile decided.

Céleste, the lady’s maid whose services Nile and Andrea shared, set aside the diamond parure in its velvet-lined case to extract a string of fresh-water pearls from a silk pouch.

Nile’s breath caught when Céleste draped the pearls around her neck and she felt their coolness against her bare skin.

“Do you think I'm ready?” Nile asked, checking her reflection in the glass.

Céleste had helped her dress in a robe and petticoat of white satin, over which she wore a light green overdress. Rather than cover her hair with a wig or wrap, she was wearing a turban of matching green crepe.

“I should think so,” answered Céleste, who took a lot of pride in her work.

Andrea offered her own opinion without even looking up from her reading. “You’d be better served by plate armour—or, even, a stick.”

Andrea had taken a seat, laying herself out on a _chaise_ with one of Mrs. Radcliffe’s Italian novels, once Céleste had finished dressing her in a red overgown with gold embroidery and dressing her hair with plumes.

Nile looked askance at Andrea, who’d taken a seat on a _chaise_ with one of Mrs. Radcliffe’s Italian novels once Céleste had dressed her in a red overgown with gold embroidery and dressed her hair with plumes. While Nile didn’t think her suggestion was seriously made, she did have to ask, “What do you mean?”

“For the fortune-hunters,” Andrea explained, with all her experience from seven years spent on the marriage market colouring her voice. “It would not surprise me if tonight you find yourself fighting a number of them off and wish you’d taken a stick.”

Nile took the suggestion with more seriousness than it was intended, though her own limited experience with male interest made that prospect difficult to imagine. “I’ll manage perfectly fine without,” she decided. “I have before.” 

Besides, she told herself, there was no chance anyone would ask her to dance if she were holding a stick.

Andrea rose to her feet and handed her book to Céleste. “Don’t wait up for us.”

“If you’re sure.” Céleste frowned a little as she considered the prospect of a rare free evening. “You may always change your mind later and ring for me. I won't mind.”

“No, I won’t. I’d rather know your evening won’t be wasted like mine. The thought might even make the next few hours I’ll have to spend making simpering conversation and dancing with men who step on my toes somewhat bearable.”

Andrea’s put-upon tone made Céleste smile. “I believe men only step on your toes because you never learned to waltz without trying to take the lead.”

“Perhaps that’s why I prefer dancing with you, dearest.”

Andrea then took Céleste by the hand to spin her around the room, both of them laughing as they knocked into the furniture.

Nile, who expected to be treated like a wallflower at Almack’s, would have been happy enough to stay and watch Andrea and Céleste dance together all night long.

What a newly-minted heiress like Nile had yet to understand was how few things in life motivate a gentleman to seek out a lady’s company like the prospect of a fortune-hunter’s reward.

Nile found the public rooms at Almack’s were the way she remembered them. Even the pictures hanging on the walls hadn’t changed in the three years she’d been out in society.

However, she couldn’t say the same of Almack’s patrons. She’d noted, as a matter of course, the regulars in attendance: the Marquess of Crewe, members of the _corps diplomatique_ , and a close friend to the Prince of Wales. She’d also spotted new faces among the well-dressed crowd: a dark-skinned gentleman with dreadlocks and a taste for lace; another, lighter-skinned man with dreadful side-burns and a silk waistcoat dyed in jonquil yellow; and another, with a dash of silver in his jet-black hair, dressed in a puce red velvet coat.

That she’d noticed Almack’s had attracted new patrons wasn’t surprising in and of itself. What was surprising was that they’d also taken notice of her when she’d stepped through the gilded doorway on her brother’s arm.

“They’re all staring at me,” Nile said to Nicolas.

Though she’d been grateful her brother’s valet had persuaded him to wear another colour besides black, she now wish she’d cloaked herself in black crepe. The men who frequented society knew that a lady in mourning clothes wasn’t keen to form an attachment and to give her a wide berth, but a lady recently out of mourning called to them like a siren song.

Nile felt as though all the attention in the room was focused on her, and it wasn’t a feeling she’d grown used to. Andrea had been right; Nile should have armed herself with a stick.

“Are they?”

Her brother’s voice was even—too even—and it made her suspicious. “This is your doing, isn’t it?”

He gave a shrug. “I might have mentioned to Lord Hall when I saw him at White’s that the late Lord Lovell had seen fit to dower you in his will.”

“You did not!” Her grip on his arm tightened as she was suddenly tempted by the prospect of fratricide by defenestration.

“He asked!” Nicolas said, in his own defense. “It’s not as if it isn’t true. Why shouldn’t I have said so?”

“Nico!” Nile had somehow managed to keep her voice low, to keep from causing a scene in public. “He’ll have told everyone about it!”

“Allow them to come to you,” Andrea advised her.

They didn’t need to wait for very long.

In short order, a crowd formed around them and they were surrounded. Their acquaintances greeted Nicolas first, offering him their condolences and some gentle teasing about his new name. Those they didn’t already know addressed themselves directly to Nile, seeking to add their names to her dance card.

Nile found some of the men who approached her agreeable enough and their attention toward her flattering.

Others, however, clearly hadn’t the benefit of female acquaintance. A particularly-offensive man had rushed to inform her of her charms, nearly shouting, “What a charming creature you are!” Nile, who’d never in her life thought of herself in those terms, had given him a disingenuous smile and an apology, citing her full dance card as an excuse for refusing to spend any more time in his company.

Once the moment had passed and the crowd had dispersed, the entire situation seemed absurd to Nile. Men—some notable personages among them—who’d never before addressed her the least bit of attention, had sought out her company. Looking over her dance card, she found the scrawled names of a member of parliament, a baronet, two earls, and a marquess. It wasn’t every day that men like that danced with a woman like her.

She’d agreed to dance with these men because she didn’t think it meant anything. She was certain their interest in her would pass as quickly as it came—without incident. It wasn’t as though she’d ever agree to marry any of these men.

For the first dance, a cotillion, she partnered with a rather handsome man who’d boasted to her about the precedence conferred to him by his title. Lord Montfort knew all the dance’s steps, but made a _faux pas_ when he let his attention wander to make eyes at another lady—the fair Miss Preston.

She then danced a minuet with Mr. Stirling, a black man with a Scottish accent, whose repeated attempts to engage her in conversation she found more distracting than his stained coat sleeve.

She then partnered with Lord Rokeby, a man who could have been Mr. Stirling’s half-brother, who was impeccably dressed but had a much thicker brogue that she couldn’t understand no matter how many times she begged him to repeat himself.

After that, Nile danced with three more gentlemen who said nothing and so didn’t leave her with any particular impressions.

She felt light-headed from all that dancing, but she didn’t think it was anything more than a sign she needed to seek refreshment.

Taking her usual seat by the chaperones to sip a glass of lemonade, Nile watched the crowd that had grown to fill the green room. Nicolas was nowhere to be seen, but she spotted Andrea dancing with the Duke of Bridgewater.

From across the room, Nile thought her sister and the dark-skinned peer were well-matched: they were both tall and appeared close in age. What’s more, they had both chosen to wear red that evening.

Nile took another sip of lemonade, trying to clear her head, before she could even think that shared sartorial tastes were as good a reason as any to marry.

“Miss Fairchild, is it?”

Nile turned to see that the Duchess of Rutland had taken a seat beside her. She found herself surprised she’d even come to the attention of one of the patronesses who dictated the rules at Almack’s. The duchess was part of a coterie of women who dictated when the assembly-rooms would open their doors and the kinds of dances that would be allowed.

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“I was sorry to hear the news of your cousin’s passing.”

“Thank you, Your Grace.”

“Lord Lovell was such a fixture at Almack’s. I suppose we’ll have to console ourselves that the event of his death persuaded his brother to return to London.”

Nile couldn’t think of a single polite thing to say in reply to so callous a comment, so she let it pass rather than risk offending a woman who could expel her from Almack’s.

“Of course, the new Lord Lovell will be looking to take a wife.”

“I couldn’t say, Your Grace.”

“Quite right. You have your own prospects to consider. You’re so fortunate the Lovells saw fit to provide you with a marriage portion—not once, but twice over!”

Nile gave the duchess a practised smile, though she would have liked nothing more than to bring their conversation to an abrupt end.

“Have you been introduced to my nephew, Mr. Stephen March?”

“I can’t say that I have.”

“Oh, we should remedy that at once. I’ll make the introductions.” The duchess turned to call her nephew like a hawker recalling a bird of prey. “Stephen!”

Nile’s first impression of the man who approached them was that he had thick brown hair, wide eyes, and a face that was almost memorable.

“Stephen,” the duchess said, taking his arm once he came within range. “You must let me introduce you to the most—well, charming—young lady.” Without waiting for his assent, the duchess introduced her new acquaintance to her nephew—the Honourable Mr. Stephen March, son of Lord Crookshank.

Mr. March gave Nile a polite bow. “Charmed.”

“Indeed,” answered Nile, who’d had her fill of being charmed.

“Miss Fairchild is the cousin of the late Lord Lovell,” the duchess said, with a marked emphasis on the word ‘late.’

“My condolences,” he said, though the words lacked meaning. “Were you close?”

“Like siblings.” It wasn't very forthcoming of her, but it was a fair description of their tempestuous relationship that wouldn't encourage any further questions.

The duchess quickly lost interest when it didn’t seem likely either of them would beseech her to petition the Archbishop of Canterbury for a special license so they could marry in haste. “I’ll leave the two of you to get better acquainted, shall I?” she said, with a put-upon sigh, and left them to find her next target.

Nile took advantage of her departure to look around, searching for any excuse to put some distance between her and her unwanted conversation partner. From her position, she could see that her sister had finished dancing and was surveying the room with a hawkish expression.

Before Nile could excuse herself to go and join her, her conversation partner tried to capture her attention by leaning in and saying, “You are a jewel in an Ethiop’s ear.”

“I beg your pardon?” she said, reeling back to stare at him with utmost astonishment.

“Do not be alarmed! It is only a line from Shakespeare.” He then placed his hand on his breast and spoke his next words to her like he’d rehearsed them, “Did my heart love till now? Forswear it, sight, for I ne’er saw true beauty till this night.”

Nile had heard enough. “I must insist on your leaving me—”

However, Mr. March was no longer paying any attention to her. His attention had already shifted toward her sister, who’d joined them. “Miss Lovell!”

Andrea spared him no attention and addressed herself only to Nile, “Nicolas has gone to call the carriage. We have time for one more turn around the room before we need to leave.”

Nile still had a few dances left, but she'd lost interest in making conversation with strangers and couldn't wait to leave. As she rose to go, she spared only the briefest of glances toward Mr. March, who’d picked up the glass of lemonade she’d left behind and quaffed it. If she did not bid the man farewell, it was because she secretly hoped she’d never see him again.

Once they’d left the room, Andrea couldn’t keep from gloating. “I didn't hear a word of your conversation, but I bet you wish you could have horsewhipped him. You can thank me later with a box of those Turkish candies.”

Nile couldn’t remember the exact line he'd given her, but she could remember the gist of it. “Would you believe he called me a bauble? We'd only just met and already he wished to add me to his collection.”

“What a coxcomb! Who introduced you?”

Nile waved her hand in imitation of a self-important aristocrat manoeuvring people like pawns on a chessboard. “The Duchess of Rutland thought my dowry would make an excellent match for her nephew.”

“I don’t suppose you informed her you have no intention of marrying anyone?”

Nile pulled a face. “No, I did not. It hardly seemed appropriate to denounce the state of marriage at the Marriage Mart.”

Andrea laughed at that. “No doubt you’ll learn to be more direct once you receive an offer of marriage or two.”

Nile didn’t doubt that Andrea was right.

As they returned home in the family’s carriage, she considered that the evening they’d spent at Almack’s was only the first test of the universally-acknowledged truth that an unmarried woman in possession of a dowry must be in want of a husband.

* * *

While in London, the Lovells had taken residence in a terraced house in Mayfair’s Grosvener Square. Lovell House was a grand building of red brick and natural stone columns in the Palladian style, with an extravagant number of sash windows—forty-eight of which looked out on the green at Grosvener Square—in defiance of the glass tax that had compelled many of the middling sort to brick up half the facades of their houses. The townhouse had been built to golden section proportions on a wide public street across from the square’s formal gardens. Five storeys, connected by a grand bifurcated staircase, were dedicated to the family’s use and to entertain their guests where the family lived and entertained. A rusticated base story, a sunken basement, and two attic storeys accommodated their servants. Lovell House had enough bedrooms to accommodate a large aristocratic family and their servants, a ballroom large enough to host a gathering of three-hundred people, and a series of public rooms suitable enough to receive anyone who might come to call when the family were said to be _at-home_.

The morning after the ball at Almack’s, Nile found the drawing room where the family received visitors had been filled to a bursting point with flower arrangements.

Hopeful suitors had sent arrangements of tulips, roses, asters, and daffodils like an advance guard to prepare the field before they came to call. Each arrangement was accompanied by a crisp white card, bearing the sender’s name and a suggestive line—one that, more often than not, made the person to whom it was addressed cringe.

The first card Nile looked at was—just as she’d expected—addressed to her sister:

> _To the Hon. Miss Lovell, whose beauty cannot be said to have faded since we last met. The Duke of Bridgewater._

Nile’s esteem for the Duke of Bridgewater—whose social rank eclipsed her own family’s—sank when she read this salvo. Nile had to wonder about the character of a man who would craft a compliment that pointed out her unmarried sister was growing long in the tooth.

Another, from Sir George Carmarthen, complimented her sister on her ability to hold a conversation—for a woman.

“Found any worth mentioning, yet?” Andrea asked, as she entered the drawing room.

“Read this one,” Nile said, handing her the last note she’d read. “And then tell me what it is you said to that blunderbuss.”

Andrea glanced at the note before tearing it up. “I couldn't even tell you.”

“Well, it certainly seems like you left more of an impression on him,” Nile said and they both laughed.

Andrea picked up another card and read it. “Here’s one for you.”

Nile expected to read another poorly-phrased compliment addressed to Andrea, so it surprised her to find the card was in fact addressed to her:

> _To Miss Fairchild, who favoured me with her attention long enough to dance a minuet. Baron Rokeby_

“I remember him.” Nile flipped the card over, before reading it again. “Are there more like this, do you think?”

A quick survey of all the cards revealed that she’d also been sent arrangements of flowers on behalf of Lord Montfort, Lord Hall, and the Hon. Mr. March. Nile didn’t think it mattered that half the arrangements were from gentlemen she didn’t wish to ever see again, let alone hold a conversation with. Yet the attention made her feel giddy with newfound excitement.

“Let’s see if you still feel the same way in a few hours when they come to call.”

Nile felt all the good cheer with which she’d read the cards evaporate in an instant.

She didn’t know how she’d handle it if they all came to call today. She didn’t know the rules for polite conversation like she knew the steps of a minuet.

She really would have preferred to stay at Seaton Delaval with her pictures, where she wouldn’t be expected to make conversation.

Turning to Andrea, Nile clasped her hands together and half-jokingly declared, “As it turns out, I’ve just decided to go back to Northumberland. I’ll give you half my pin money for the year if you don’t tell Nico where I’ve gone.”

“Not a chance!” Andrea said, tossing the cards that were addressed to her into the fireplace. “If I have to stay and weather all this unwanted attention, so do you.”

Nile let out a long breath and let herself collapse on one of the sofas. “That feeling never really goes away, does it?”

Andrea took a seat beside her. “This all feels so new to you, doesn’t it?”

“Why? I’ve been out in society before, but I’ve never felt so—exposed?”

“Listen, all you need to do is act the part of a queen granting an audience to her court, dispensing favour as she sees fit. Stay seated, sit up straight, and don’t make any promises to anyone.”

Mr. Finch, the butler at Lovell House, stood in the doorway and cleared his throat. “There is a caller to see you, Miss Fairchild.”

Nile sat up straighter in her seat and Andrea gave Nile a conspiratorial grin before freeing up the seat beside her as the man was shown in.

Her first caller, a baronet, only wanted to tell her about the horses and hounds he bred to hunt the game at an estate in Gloucestershire. Didn’t he know that she didn’t care for riding or hunting, unlike her sister?

The next one, a foppish gentleman, advised her on the season’s fashions—pomona green wouldn’t do when emerald green was to be had from the _modistes_. Didn’t he care that she liked pomona green?

Once Nile realized that none of the men who came to call would ask after her interests and opinions, she was eventually able to let the sound of one-sided conversation wash over her like idle chatter—giving only non-committal responses, lest any of the callers imagine he’d gained her favour. Even so, it felt like an ordeal.

When the butler showed the last caller to the door and she was alone at last, she was relieved.

As she made her way upstairs, where she could pretend she was no longer _at-home_ , she found her sister and her lady's maid preparing to head out of doors for a _promenade_.

“Will you be joining us for a walk today?” asked Céleste.

“Are you heading all the way out to Hyde Park?”

“Yes,” Andrea answered for them both. “With any luck, we won’t meet with anyone who will try and chaperone us.”

“Oh, then don’t let me intrude on your time alone. I thought I’d check in on Nicolas. I haven’t seen him since Mr. Finch came in with the post and that was some time ago.”

Nile found Nicolas in his study, a windowless space filled with books the family usually treated as his sanctuary.

When she pushed the oak-panelled door open, she found him in the dark room, sitting at his desk and staring at a packet of letters on his desk. The unopened letters were bundled together with string, and a single letter lay open before him. He didn’t try to hide the letters when she came in unannounced, but he did try to hide that he'd been weeping by wiping at his face with his hands.

“Nico?”

“You’ve found me,” he said, in quiet voice that was rough from crying.

“I came to see if you were—well, alright, I suppose.”

“That’s kind of you.”

When he didn’t say anything further, Nile quietly shut the door behind her and moved to take a seat across from him. “It’s all right if you aren’t, of course.”

Nicolas tried to smile, but it wasn't at all convincing. He looked as though he weren’t sure whether to let his tears fall freely or to hold them back.

Since Nicolas had returned home from living abroad, he’d kept all his emotions bottled up. He behaved so differently from the young man she remembered who’d been so open and free with his feelings. Since his return, he’d been trying to act like a father and a guardian to her and her sister, but in this moment, he seemed most like himself.

“I’m not alright,” he said, at last.

“What’s happened?” she asked, and the question made him cry harder. “Have you received ill news? Is there something the family—”

“No! No, nothing like that.” Nicolas spoke in halting sentences, between hitching breaths, as he told her something he’d never before shared with anyone else. “There was—someone—in Malta.”

Nile was surprised by this. Neither she nor her sister had known that he’d formed an attachment with anyone, let alone someone for whom he’d had feelings. She waited for him to say more, hoping he would tell her more about the woman he’d loved but his family had never known about.

“We had an—an understanding,” he said, pulling a wrinkled handkerchief from his pocket to wipe away the tears that were forming again in his eyes. “When I had to return home, I thought—well, it doesn’t matter now. Whatever understanding we had has been broken now.”

When an understanding—which could mean anything from a simple attachment to a formal engagement—was broken off, for whatever reason, it was customary for those involved to return or destroy their correspondence.

Nile looked again at the packet of letters on his desk. She couldn’t read the name to whom they were addressed, but she assumed they represented all the letters her brother had ever written to his lover.

“Was she not suitable?” Nile asked, her tone gentle, thinking of the attachments her eldest brother had formed with a string of housemaids at Seaton Delaval. Even if Robert had been serious with any of the women he’d pursued, an aristocrat could not marry a servant and expect to be received in society. If he had, his decision would have ruined all their reputations.

Nile found it difficult to imagine Nicolas, who was so different from Robert, taking a mistress.

“We could never marry,” Nicolas said, his lips twisting into a sad smile.

“Why not?” Nile had to ask because his answer struck her as odd. Even if her brother had formed an attachment with someone who wasn’t of their station, they might have eloped and lived out their lives away from society.

Nicolas looked as though he were considering his words very carefully. His words, when he eventually spoke them, stayed with Nile for a long time afterward. “We could never have had children together.”

Nile rose abruptly to her feet, turning away from him to hide the shock that must have shown on her face.

She moved to the sideboard and busied herself with pouring a generous measure of whiskey into two glasses, while her thoughts raced.

Nico had inherited a peerage when Robert had died without issue. It now fell to Nicolas to ensure that their family name did not die out and the viscountcy become extinct.

Nicolas was a peer and a peer had to marry a woman who could give him heirs of his body.

It was a simple truth that Nile, who never wished to bear children had so far managed to ignore. She would happily have remained a spinster her entire life. If she had to marry, she wanted to marry someone who wouldn’t force himself on her. However, she doubted she would find a suitable husband who didn’t wish for children among the men who jockeyed for status and preferment in London’s ballrooms and drawing rooms. It was a hopeless thought she couldn’t let herself dwell on.

Nile waited until she’d calmed down enough that her hands were steady before offering one of the glasses to Nicolas.

He stared at the whiskey for a moment, studying how the amber liquid swirled and coated the glass, before taking a drink. “I am given to think that love is a fool’s errand.”

“Don't say that. You deserve contentment, Nico.”

He said nothing for a moment while he stood and fetched the cut-glass decanter from the sideboard to pour himself another generous glass of whiskey. “No, I am resolved to marry only because it is my duty. I will look for someone suitable.” He took a drink and then another. “I have to marry some woman who might give me children, but not someone with whom I could ever fall in love,” he pledged.

Nile took a drink from her own glass and, as the alcohol burned her throat and warmed her inside, it hardened her own pledge to never ever marry a peer.

* * *

Nile kept this bleak resolution in mind when the Lovells attended their next engagement, the Vane ball.

It led her to adopt the exact opposite of a behaviour match-making mamas encouraged in their unmarried daughters: avoid any contact with the men considered society’s most eligible suitors. She wouldn’t dance with any of the peers in attendance—or, even, any person who stood to inherit a peerage.

Instead, she showed preferment to the men who wouldn’t ever think of courting her: confirmed bachelors. Nile dissembled and made her excuses to Lord Winchilsea, Lord Rokeby, and the Hon. Mr. Lamb when they each approached her in turn, while she accepted to dance with Lord Francis Spencer, the younger son of a duke.

Mr. March, however, proved more difficult to elude than all the others.

“Ah, Miss Fairchild!”

“Mr. March,” Nile said, grudgingly acknowledging his greeting.

“Would you accord me a dance this evening?” Mr. March asked, expecting her to hand her dance card over. “How about an _allemande_?” he suggested, naming a dance that required a couple to remain in contact with each other.

“I would be honoured, sir, if I weren’t already engaged to—”

“Come now, Miss Fairchild. One dance is all I solicit. It would be a favour I shall ever most gratefully acknowledge.”

Nile could imagine that if she agreed to dance with him once, he’d then ask for a second and a third to cement his status as her favourite.

“Sir, favours and strangers have with me no connection,” she said, in a tone that bordered on uncivility.

Mr. March stepped closer to her, close enough she could smell his breath when he spoke. “If you have hitherto confined your benevolence to your intimate friends, suffer me to be the first for whom your charity is enlarged.”

Nile wanted to scoff at the man’s presumption. She would have to be plain in her refusal, then, and save herself from his further attentions. “Sir, perhaps—”

Before she could give him the cut direct, however, they were joined by a third man she’d never laid eyes on before that moment.

“Sir, I believe it was I who was promised the _allemande_ next,” said the man with a French accent.

He was quite pleasant-looking, though his coat and cravat weren’t cut from the same fine cloth as half the men in attendance. He wore his dark blonde hair without powder or a periwig, with the confidence of a man who didn’t need to adopt fashionable affectations to look attractive. He was also older than many of the men who’d sought Nile’s attention. She thought his face looked weathered by time and lived experience—and so unlike those other men who thought to gain it by going on a grand tour of the continent.

Nile, of course, had never before held a conversation with this man or promised him an _allemande_. She wouldn’t have promised anything to any man, if she didn’t know the man’s name, rank, and reputation.

She had a choice to make: dance with a complete stranger or dance with a man she disliked.

Looking between them, she thought that it wasn’t really much of a choice.

Nile took the stranger’s outstretched hand and walked with him across the room.

Once they were out of ear-shot, Nile confronted the man who’d interceded on her behalf. “I do not believe we are acquainted, sir.”

“I am well-acquainted with women in your position,” the Frenchman said, pointedly.

“My position?” she asked, in reply, wondering whether he was the kind of person who only saw her as a double-dowried heiress looking for someone to spend her portion on cards and horses.

“Waylaid by fortune-hunters,” he answered, in a tone that plainly suggested his opinion of such men.

“Ah.” Nile turned to face him, holding out her hand in the position required for an _allemande_. “Thank you.”

The Frenchman reached out to grasp her gloved hand to assume the dance’s first position and, though his face gave nothing away, he gave her hand a little squeeze.

The sensation of it made Nile’s heart leap in her chest and she wondered, for a moment, whether she’d imagined it.

Where most social dances allowed only fleeting touches between the dancers, the _allemande_ allowed them to keep in contact. They danced—stepping, lightly, back and forth before turning in a circle—with their joined hands keeping them close together. He lifted his arm for her, so she could step beneath it, and when she returned the motion, he adjusted himself to her shorter height without difficulty. As they spun around and circled one another, the details of their surroundings the assembled crowd faded away until all she saw was the man who wouldn’t let go of her hand.

She could feel the heat of his skin through the thin fabric of her glove, and it filled her with desire.

She started to imagine what it would feel like if he removed her glove—tugging gently at each finger until it was loose, then sliding the length of it down her arm and over her hand. She wondered whether he would place a kiss on her bare skin.

She had to focus on her footing or she’d lose her place.

And yet, she found she couldn’t look away from his face. She studied his features like she would a portrait or a bust in her collection, searching for flaws. His skin wasn’t as smooth or as flat as a figure sketched with oil paint. A light flush from the exertion of the dance had coloured his cheeks. He was real—human—and it made her tremble with desire.

She could feel a bead of sweat roll down her spine, beneath the fabric of the chemise she wore under her ballgown, and the sensation of it made her gasp as she imagined how it might feel if he were to place his hand at the small of her back.

She wanted him in a way she’d never felt toward anyone else she’d ever met.

A few baroque strains from a string orchestra and a duet had blown a spark of attraction between them into a smouldering flame.

Sooner than she would have liked, the music drew to a close and they were left standing—facing each other—in the middle of the ballroom floor.

“Your servant, Miss Fairchild,” the Frenchman said, giving her a polite bow and taking his leave of her before she even had a chance to ask his name.

She didn’t know him from Adam, and yet she couldn't stop thinking about him. **The sensation of his hands on her body continued to haunt her even as she danced with a string of other men.**

**Author's Note:**

> If you liked this story, consider leaving a little note! Your excitement gives me the excitement I need to finish and publish my next story.
> 
> If you’re not sure what to say, that’s okay! ❤ are _great_. If you really enjoyed a particular line, you can let me know by copying it into the body of your comment. [I enjoy turning some of these lines into illustrations when I’m between projects.](https://caldefrance.tumblr.com/tagged/quote/) I also take reader requests! If there’s a small moment or an exchange between these characters that you would like to have seen, I might write a little fill for you and post it as bonus material in the comments. I may take a few days to answer, if I’m writing, but I try to respond to comments within a week.
> 
> You can also check out cover art and other visuals related to this story [here](https://caldefrance.tumblr.com/tagged/lovell-story/chrono/). I post cover art, visual inspiration, and teasers for my published stories and upcoming projects on tumblr, @[caldefrance](https://caldefrance.tumblr.com/).


End file.
